


don't you breathe

by akamine_chan



Series: War [1]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Prostitution, Roleplay, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Korse doesn't usually see a need to go out into the field himself, he has his Draculoids and the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W teams for that.  But sometimes there's no way to avoid it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turlough](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turlough/gifts).



> Beta by Ande, title from _Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking_ by Snow Patrol
> 
> Written for Turlough's birthday. T, you're one of the best people I know, and I'm sorry this is late. I know how much you love Gerard/Korse, and I did my best to give them some happiness, but it's hard in this 'verse...Happy belated birthday!
> 
> Takes place long before _War_ , but in the same 'verse. Helps to read that, first.

Korse doesn't usually see a need to go out into the field himself, he has his Draculoids and the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W teams for that. But sometimes there's no way to avoid it.

One of their supply convoys is hit by 'runner scum, the fifth in as many days, and Korse wants to know who is responsible. This looks bad to the Director, and Korse hates looking like the fool.

His Dracs take him out to what's left of the convoy. A concrete roadblock, and the wrecked remains of a dozen vehicles. Korse hoists himself up into the back of one of the supply trucks, kicks at the empty boxes and shredded tarps. They took everything.

"They call themselves the Fabulous Killjoys," one of the Dracs says, pointing to some graffiti sprayed on the cracked surface of the road.

Korse leans out of the truck bed, tilting his head. "Art is the weapon," he reads. The letters are bright red and messy, almost as wide as the road itself. "Anyone alive?"

"No, sir."

"Of course not." Korse jumps lightly to the ground and brushes the dirt off his hands.

"But one of our informants in Zone 3 has some intel on this group, says he's got an in with whoever is hitting the convoys, these Fabulous Killjoys."

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" That was the problem with Dracs; they had no initiative. It was bred out of them, and Korse wasn't entirely sure it was worth it. No ambition, no imagination.

They drive into Zone 3, and it is clear that the 'runners have been warned, because the place is deserted. The driver stops outside of a Fuck You house, a ramshackle wooden structure desperately in need of a paint job.

"Here?" Korse feels his eyebrow arch as he climbs out of the car, his hand dropping down automatically to check his raygun.

"Yes, sir. Said he'd be waiting," the Drac replies.

Korse looks around, because he knows a trap when he sees one. "Secure the perimeter." He tries to brush the dust off his trousers while the Dracs circle the building. It's a fruitless endeavor, but it calms him a little, brings him back to center.

"Nothing, sir."

Korse nods and draws his raygun, pristine white and clean. "Stay alert." He nudges the door of the Fuck You house open with a foot, and pushes his sunglasses up, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. There's someone sitting on a stool, slumped at the bar, feet hooked over the rungs. Korse listens, looks, but there's no one else.

He approaches slowly, boots almost silent on the wood floor, but his caution turns out to be unnecessary, because the 'runner is dead, a charred hole gaping in his chest. "Damn," he says, disappointed. He was looking forward to getting some intel out of the informant.

Korse holsters his gun and heads back outside, stopping in shock at the sight of a 'runner leaning against the wall of the building across from the Fuck You house, shaded from the fierce sun by the overhang. He wasn't there before Korse went inside the building, which means his Dracs have completely failed to notice the 'runner showing up. Incompetents. He's going to have to talk to Research and Development about this, because this batch of Dracs seems to be suboptimal on so many levels.

The 'runner's resting one foot flat against the wall, hip cocked, smoking a cigarette. A hustler in torn jeans and a tight shirt, neon red hair and a brash grin. 

Korse has no doubt that the 'runner knows exactly what kind of picture he presents.

"Hey, sugar, can I show you a good time?"

The Dracs turn, suddenly aware, _now_ , of the 'runner. Korse gestures for them to stand down, and the Dracs do, shrugging at each other. "I'll handle this."

Korse strides up to the hustler and rests his hands to either side of the bright hair, trapping the 'runner between his body and the wall. "How much?" It's been a long time since he's indulged, and this young thing makes him _hungry_.

The 'runner cocks his head. "Depends on what you want. A blow will set you back a hundred c's, three hundred to fuck me. No marks, rough kinks cost extra, most everything else is negotiable. C's up front."

Korse laughs in disbelief. "A hundred? Going rate's fifty."

Licking his lips, the 'runner looks at him from under his eyelashes, coy. "I'm worth every c, baby."

"Are you?" Korse doesn't doubt it for a minute. "What's your name?"

"You can call me Red."

Korse lets his lips curve slightly. "Red, huh?" He tucks some of Red's hair behind his ear, not missing Red's shiver when Korse trails his finger around the curve of his jaw. "How much extra for marks?" Korse leans in, mouth hovering right above Red's pulse. He licks, and then blows a soft puff of air against the pale skin. "I find myself very interested in seeing how easily you bruise."

"Another hundred," Red whispers, breathless. 

"Sold," Korse murmurs back, setting his teeth to the spot between Red's neck and shoulder and _biting_.

Red groans and arches his back a little.

Korse holds up a wad of c's, waiting until Red nods before shoving them into the tight pocket of Red's jeans. "You got a place? Or should I just bend you over the hood of the car and fuck you right there?"

"Fuck, that's hot," Red mumbles, sliding under Korse's arm and grabbing his hand, leading him into the dimness of the building. There's a ratty mattress on the floor, with equally ragged blankets. Red starts tugging at his shirt, pulling it over his head and working on the buttons of his jeans. He drops to the mattress and kicks at the denim until he manages to free his feet. "Whatcha waiting for, sugar?"

Korse looks him over, pale skin over lean muscle. "On your hand and knees." 

"Like this?" Red asks, holding himself above the mattress and slowly spreading his legs wide. "Or like this?" He sinks lower, buries his face in the blankets, back arching. "C'mon, baby, give it to me."

Korse is so damn hard in his trousers; this little hustler has managed to push every one of his buttons. He can feel a line of sweat blooming along his spine, and he just wants to fuck into Red, make him writhe and beg. But he paid extra for the privilege of leaving marks, so he smacks Red on the ass until Red's gasping with every strike, hands fisting the blanket.

"You look gorgeous like this," Korse murmurs, dragging his fingernails lightly against Red's abused ass. 

"Fuck," Red gasps, head jerking up at the sensations. "Harder."

"Bet you say that to all your clients."

"You know it, baby," Red chokes out as Korse scratches him again, digging in and leaving behind white trails that slowly fade to pink.

"Slick?"

Red presses a small bottle into Korse's hands. "Fuck me."

Korse smacks him, annoyed. "Don't rush me. I want my money's worth."

"Fuck," Red whimpers. "Sure, baby, whatever you want—oh."

Korse shuts him up by pushing in with a wet finger. "You talk too much. Maybe I should gag you," he muses. Red is hot and tight when he adds a second finger, and Korse doesn't want to open him up _too_ much. He has the feeling that Red likes everything with a touch of pain. 

He pulls his fingers out, and spanks Red until he's moaning and squirming, begging wordlessly, his ass almost as red as his hair. Korse wants more, and he pinches the flesh under his hands, marking him with little welts that will probably darken into bruises later. He wants to see that.

"Please," Red whines, and Korse is done with waiting. He just pops the button on his trousers, unzips, and slides in slow and deep.

"Oh, f-f-fuck," Red hisses, and Korse grabs his narrow hips, keeping Red from fucking himself on Korse's cock. He wonders, as he starts thrusting, if Red will wake up tomorrow with fingerprint-shaped smudges on his skin, blue-black and splotchy. Korse keeps a steady rhythm, and he can feel the heat from the inflamed skin of Red's ass. He pulls out, palms the cheeks of Red's ass, squeezing and scratching, listening to the sounds it pulls out of Red. It's obscene, and Korse loves it.

"Don't stop, fuck, please don't—"

Korse doesn't stop, keeps fucking Red until he shudders and cries out under Korse, body arching tight before slumping down onto the mattress. Korse follows him down, grinding in deep and swallowing a groan before coming himself, sweaty and panting.

He can feel the way Red is bonelessly relaxed under him, and Korse lets himself go, eyes fluttering tiredly before he slips into a doze.

* * *

Something, a change in the air, wakes him. His eyes open and—"Gerard."

"Hey." Gerard's voice is scratchy and rough, and he smiles a little at Korse. "That was fucking hot," he says, stretching with a soft sigh. He tucks his head into the spot under Korse's jaw.

Korse strokes his hand along the length of Gerard's back, fingers bumping along the vertebrae. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he murmurs. "Though I had no idea you liked to role play."

"Mmmm," Gerard hums. 

"You've been staying out of trouble," Korse says, and it's not a question. Gerard hasn't been to the House of Life in a while. "And Mikey, too."

"Yeah," he agrees sleepily. "Whatcha doing out in the Zones, Korse? BLI not keeping you busy enough in the city, you gotta come out here chasing 'runners?"

Korse combs his fingers through Gerard's hair. The color of it has always fascinated him. "New crew stirring up trouble, hitting the supply convoys. Call themselves the Fabulous Killjoys."

"Heard of them," Gerard says through a yawn. "Leader calls himself Party Poison. Stupid name."

"They're dangerous, Gerard. Stay far away from them, or you'll show back up at the House of Life sooner than you think."

Gerard laughs softly. "Danger's my middle name, baby. You know that."

Korse sighs and wraps his arms around Gerard, holding him close.

* * *

Korse sits up. From the angle of sunlight coming into the room, it's getting late. "I've got to go."

Gerard doesn't say anything, just watches him.

"I miss you." The words are raw and honest, and Korse doesn't care how vulnerable that makes him. It's nothing but the truth. 

"I know." Gerard reaches up and touches a finger to Korse's mouth.

"You could—"

Gerard surges up and kisses him, stopping Korse from asking for things that Gerard can't—won't give him. His mouth is wet and hot and tastes like regret.

"Stay safe," Korse whispers, standing up and zipping his trousers, straightening his shirt. Gerard wraps his arms around his legs and watches, unblinking. "Goodbye, Gerard. Until next time."

He turns and walks outside, and doesn't look back.

-fin-


End file.
